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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29312550">to jump a ship</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mxmushroom/pseuds/mxmushroom'>mxmushroom</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Accidentally soft at the end, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM titles, Blowjob through clothing, Canon-Typical, Choking, Cis Elias Bouchard, Cis Peter Lukas, Dry Humping, Dubious Prep?, Elias.... lets him, Established Relationship, Impact Play, In Elias' Office, M/M, No compulsion, Oral Fixation, Orgasm Denial, Peter Doms, Praise Kink, Season One LonelyEyes, Sub Elias, because of course they are, degradation kink, i just think he's neat, kind of, misogynistic language, no beta we die like gertrude robinson, they have a safeword</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-09</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:54:32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,088</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29312550</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mxmushroom/pseuds/mxmushroom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Elias receives a complaint. Peter convinces him to take it seriously.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>82</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>to jump a ship</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>title is from "i love you like an alcoholic" by the taxpayers<br/>peter uses the word "wh*re" for elias, tread cautiously<br/>implied established BDSM relationship, but extremely dubious prep/boundaries/safety<br/>anyway, i am not immune to the evil old men fucking one another</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The larger man’s legs are crossed where he sits across from Elias, looming, his shadow falling in dark shapes over the polished oak. He leans back in the chair Elias didn’t invite him to sit in. Elias tries to stop himself from examining the callouses on Peter’s folded hands, the short, clean trim of his nails, the sun-spotted pale backs of his hands, the hair on the knuckles. The frown across his brow brings out the lines that wind and sea and age have carved into his face.  He adjusts his spectacles nonchalantly and meets Lukas’ eye. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Go ahead</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he seems to taunt. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Say your piece. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Lukas shifts. His eyes are vacant, his mouth set under the white hair of his moustache. Elias clears his throat. Somewhere, a clock marks the passage of time quietly, relentlessly. They sit. Downstairs, Elias’ staff will be leaving for the day. Packing their bags and slipping on their coats against the wet London winter, the cold grey air. It’s a skill he’s always prided himself on, his ability to sit so perfectly, almost impossibly still. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, Lukas swallows, and Elias knows he is about to speak. After so many years, he’s fluent in their little game, the waiting, the quiet, almost imperceptible signs that one of them is about to break. He smiles and his eyes penetrate the other man’s, piercing and cold. Oh, Peter, he thinks with something that is not quite affection. You obstinate fool.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sure you’ve heard from Ms. Hearne,” Lukas says. His voice is gruff, throaty. He seems to swallow each word before he can speak it fully. There’s a certain vocal fry about it, the creak of disuse after months on the Tundra, drifting across a frozen, empty sea in silence. Something stirs in Elias’ stomach. He ignores it. Leaning forward, he rests his thin elbows on the hard desk, lets his chin rest gentle on the backs of his hands. He can feel his hair beginning to break free of the mousse that holds it in place, the stubborn fatigue of this body at the end of a gruelling week kicking in. Peter smells of salt and sweat and maybe also tobacco and whisky. He’s all musk and his presence is electric. Elias ignores that, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Instead, he smiles. “Indeed.” There’s no need to offer anything more. Peter will cave, as he always does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t disappoint. “You’re finding your new pet difficult to control.” Elias laughs, drily but not without humour, and he can feel Peter’s eyes on his mouth, the sharp cut of his jaw, as he does. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jonathan is difficult,” he admits. “He’s not willing to admit what he knows to be true.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re being deliberately frustrating.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Certainly not.” Elias smiles. “I have her complaint in my desk. You can read it, if you like.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter lights a cigarette. The institute is full of paper, fragile and ephemeral, but Elias says nothing, lets the bulking, wan man across from him balance the smoke between his lips and light it, take a long, punishing drag from it, lets the room fill with the stench of nicotine and knows that the conversation is coming to its end. He watches Peter smoke the entire cigarette without speaking. He does not cough. He scarcely pauses between deliberate, controlled breaths, burning the toxic, sickening thing down to its filter, where he stubs it out on Elias’ desk, leaving a round black scar. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elias starts to say something, but Peter stands. His face is firm, his eyes searching. They trace the lines of Elias’ shoulders in his grey silk suit, the place where the knot of his tie has come just loose, the insistent, growing bulge between Elias’ legs. Elias finds himself shifting, moving his chair so that when Peter has, agonizingly slowly, rounded the desk, they’re facing each other, and Elias stares up at Peter and lets out a sharp, hot breath. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It infuriates him how easily Peter projects this air of apathy, how unbothered he appears as Elias feels himself coming undone from the core from the sheer gravity of Peter’s body, his smell, his voice. It’s a thrill, though, to be, for once, at someone else’s mercy. “Please,” Peter begins tauntingly, “don’t let him antagonize my people. Naomi has caused us enough difficulty without your interference.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elias nods. “I’ll… speak with him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“See that you do.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter’s hand is firm and decisive on Elias’ chin, pulling it up still further, easing Elias forward in his seat, his fingers just too tight to be comfortable, and Elias finds himself gasping for each breath as he lets himself be guided from his seat and onto his knees on the sleek, hard floor of his office. He knows he could ask Peter to stop, and he’d turn away, out Elias’ door and into the fog, but he doesn’t speak. He tries to control his breathing, feeling his heart pound violently against his chest. As his eyes flutter shut, Elias presses his face forward to meet Peter, the rough, salt-worn fabric of his jeans on Elias’ cheek, the smell of his sex at the back of his throat. He cannot think: he does not want to. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Naomi Hearne will disappear, and no one will miss her,” Peter continues. Unconcerned. Light. “And your Archivist will dismiss it as a coincidence.” How can he keep his voice so controlled as his stiffening cock presses against his trousers, right where he holds Elias’ mouth firmly in place? Elias can’t stop himself from nuzzling forward into the heat of it, letting his mouth open to suck at the growing bulge through the thick, unforgiving fabric. Peter does not seem to notice. “You really ought to be able to keep him under control. Big man like you.” Peter’s voice drips with loathing. Elias can’t respond. His hands have found their way around Peter’s body, gripping at him, resting on his arse, grabbing at him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All at once there’s an unforgiving vice-grip in his hair, snapping his head back in a flash of delicious pain that goes straight to his cock. Peter looks down at Elias in contempt, his mouth twisted in hatred and desire. “Say something.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I…” Elias trails off. His voice fails him; he has no power here, not now. He curses himself for letting Peter get the better of him; he thought, for a moment, he had him, but Jon, this oblivious, cynical new Archivist is his weak point. He doesn’t care to think how Peter might have known that the precarity of it all would throw Elias off, startle him into submission. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter laughs at him, hard, staccato sounds, and Elias knows he is utterly helpless. “Oh, go on, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Elias</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he urges, “don’t tell me you’re letting me have the last word.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s no inconsiderable amount of effort to wrench his mind away from the growing, all-consuming need that encompasses him as Peter holds him in place and he feels a warm, enticing dampness spreading across the front of his trousers. When he opens his mouth, he lets out a moan before he realizes what he’s doing, and Peter pulls him to his feet. His hands are rough, thankless, but Elias is more than happy to allow himself to be manhandled as Peter pushes him back against the heavy oak desk. It doesn’t shift, even against their combined weight, and they’re almost eye-to-eye now, Elias’ thin, wiry frame just inches from the soft, padded muscle of Peter’s broad chest and wide, strong shoulders. He notices how heavy his breathing is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All at once there’s a welcome pressure on his cock. Peter’s palm presses against him and his knees weaken; he lets one arm fall back against the desk to support him and feels a strand of salt-and-pepper hair fall across his damp forehead. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter growls, “pathetic.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I… the Archivist won’t be… a problem anymore.” He speaks choppily, his words punctuated by hard, desperate breaths he can no longer quite control. Peter’s fingers are undoing the button of his trousers; Elias spreads his legs instinctively, trembling now. And still, Peter’s composure; the cool, hard stare of his eyes, the firm set of his jaw, taunt him. Not thinking, Elias reaches forward to grab at the other man’s jacket and pull him forward and their lips meet, roughly, and he is hot and wet and then he pulls back and there’s a sharp, cutting sting as his palm meets Elias’ cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter’s palm is on his briefs, now, and the thin fabric is soaked almost through. “I’m sorry </span>
  <em>
    <span>sir</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he corrects, but before Elias can repeat the phrase, Peter forces two of his fingers between his lips and he’s sucking at them, urgently, thinking that if this is the punishment Jon’s misbehaviour elicits, perhaps his new acolyte isn’t so bad after all. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter is murmuring pretty things just under his breath now as he toys with the buttons down Elias’ shirtfront, slides his blazer off his shoulders so it falls to the floor, moves his hand from Elias’ now-throbbing cock to run his fingers over the sparse, short-trimmed black chest hair, the hard nipples exposed by the haphazard undressing. “You whore.” Elias sighs at that. He can’t be bothered to pretend to be miffed at the degradation. “You think you have so much power. That you </span>
  <em>
    <span>Know </span>
  </em>
  <span>me.” At some point, Elias had shifted back so he’s sitting now, balanced on the edge of the desk, his legs wrapped around Peter’s hips, where his now-exposed cock aches for friction, for touch. He ruts desperately forward and Peter whispers, “you’re nothing to me. I’ll fuck you senseless while it watches and leave you here, sat on your throne of fear, alone.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Elias fumbles to pull off Peter’s jeans, he doesn’t resist, which he takes as permission. He finds himself wondering how long he’ll manage to keep this scrap of control, but the warmth of Peter’s hand guiding Elias’ fingers to the curve of his cock pushes the thought from his mind. He whimpers as he touches Peter, the fingers that fuck towards the back of his throat no longer enough to satisfy Elias’ ache to be filled, controlled, toyed with. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re so pretty like this.” Peter’s voice is softer now. Elias notices with some satisfaction that he’s losing his composure, his words spilling out just a little too quickly as his cock twitches in Elias’ hand, as he shifts his hips just slightly in rhythm with the slow, tantalizing strokes of Elias’ fingers down his shaft. “Elias,” he breathes. “Elias.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elias wants to beg Peter to fuck him, demand that he flip him over the desk and take him already, stop this senseless teasing, but he can’t speak; Peter’s seen to that. Instead he abandons the handjob he’s been giving and grinds himself against Peter, whining, drool dripping from his mouth, still latched around Peter’s fingers, and down his chin. He knows he looks a mess: his face is hot, still smarting from where Peter struck him, his cock is slick with pre-cum, his back and chest wet with sweat, and if he opened his eyes, he’s certain they’d be wild with want. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Someone’s impatient.” That’s the worst thing, that Peter knows, that he can see, how desperate Elias is, how helpless, how Peter knows the burn that’s building inside him and refuses to satisfy it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Now, now. Hold still.” It’s a gargantuan effort. Elias’ body screams for Peter’s, and as the other man slides his fingers out of Elias’ mouth, pulls away from where their bodies were pressed flush against each other, replacing his warmth with the cold office air, Elias whines again, “please.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter steps back, observing Elias with amusement as he finally sheds his jacket, the warm flannel top and grimy white tee shirt he’d worn, as though he wanted to look out of place, to sully the pristine shine of Elias’ sanctum. Elias doesn’t move, but his mind flashes with thoughts of crawling towards Peter, taking that beautiful, dripping cock into his mouth. For an agonizing moment, Peter just stares at Elias hungrily, as though drinking him in, every naked, exposed inch of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come here.” But Elias’ voice doesn’t carry its usual weight and the demand falls flat in the charged air between them. “Peter,” he begs, “touch me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then Peter lets go, and he doesn’t hold his natural strength back as he lifts Elias roughly from the desk. They’ve done this a hundred times in this office at least, but Elias still feels a thrill down his spine as Peter settles himself into Elias’ chair, Elias in his lap. Then his mouth is on Elias’ throat, and pain blossoms from where he bites, leaving a bruise in purple-black across Elias’ dark skin, and Elias moans, “I’ve missed you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter scoffs. “Don’t flatter me.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, really.” There are hands in his hair. “This, I’ve wanted you, to feel you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter can’t hit Elias with their bodies so close, but he grabs at his wrist and twists it so Elias’ arm is pinned behind his back, and Elias smirks. “I said, </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t,</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Peter growls. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Or what?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter doesn’t need to ask Elias what drawer to open. As he snaps the small, silver tube open and generously coats his fingers until they’re slick and glistening, he doesn’t speak. Elias tries not to betray his anticipation, but the shiver than runs through him when Peter traces his index finger over his hole can’t be concealed. Peter isn’t gentle as he pushes in, and he doesn’t move. Elias is about to complain, but Peter cuts him off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What a pity,” he whispers, “it would be to be such a mess for me, and not be allowed to come.” He slides his single finger agonizingly slowly into Elias and out again, teasing him, watching the flickers of satisfaction and want and pleasure across his usually inscrutable face. “I could fuck you like the toy you are, and let you beg for release, and I wouldn’t listen.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elias wants to protest, but he can’t: a second finger joins Peter’s first, the gentle thrusting picking up speed as Peter readies him, and Elias feels himself opening, readying, aching for it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” he whispers, “that’s not--” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I own you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elias nods, frantic. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He knows he is. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You won’t come unless you’ve earned it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter turns Elias with a shockingly deft, fluid motion, so that his cock is poised at Elias’ entrance, and moves a hand to his throat. Elias gasps at the pressure of Peter’s head, wet with lube and desire, pushing at his arse, not entering him, not yet. He wants to say something, but Peter’s hand pushes against his windpipe and a pleasant lightheadedness overtakes him so he can’t speak. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you want?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elias squirms. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Use your words.” Peter laughs when Elias opens his mouth and nothing comes out. “Oh, you sweet, pathetic thing.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A noise escapes Elias’ throat, somewhere between a moan and a keen, desperation and longing conjured up from deep within his gut. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Adorable.” Peter’s tone is mocking, and he juts his hips forward with a suddenness that pushes Elias to an edge he knew he was close to, knows, too, that he can’t fall over, not yet, even as Peter fills him, rests inside him with a tantalizing stillness. Peter’s grip on his throat relaxes and Elias gasps. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck me. Fuck me, Peter, please.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It starts slow, but Elias still leans forward to brace himself on the desk as Peter thrusts up into him, finding the sweet spot that makes Elias shudder. Peter’s groans grow louder, more frequent, but still he won’t speed up, to Elias’ chagrin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Harder. Peter.” He obliges, and Elias cries out. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter guides Elias’ hips so that Elias is utterly at his mercy, and whispers, “You’re doing so well, love.” Elias doesn’t want to admit it, but the rare show of affection makes him blush, and he’s glad Peter can’t see his face like this. “Fuck, you feel good.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Peter… Peter, I--” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The rhythm they’ve reached together stops abruptly. “Not yet.” Elias cants his hips almost unwillingly, but Peter’s grip on his hips tightens, holding him still: “I said </span>
  <em>
    <span>no.</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be good!” It escapes from Elias’ lips with a gasp as his cock twitches and his hole tightens around Peter as though searching for friction. “I promise, Peter, just--” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All at once Peter’s hands are on his cock and around his throat and his eyes are closed and all he hears is heavy breathing, the whispers of his own name, the moans punctuating the quiet, still air as Peter takes him, undoes him, makes him call out, “yes, yes, yes,” as the white heat of his orgasm overtakes him and he spills, spent, into Peter’s hand. He tastes himself, the salt and bitter of his own come as Peter coaxes his mouth open and slides his fingers inside, and as Elias sucks himself off Peter’s hand the other man’s hips stutter and he finishes with a groan. “Elias,” he whispers when it’s done. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elias can feel the cock softening inside him but he hesitates to pull away, reluctant to dress, to tidy himself, to see Peter out of the office, not knowing when he might see the other man again. It doesn’t last. He feels Peter guide himself out of him and he stumbles to his feet, steadying himself on the desk. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well,” Elias says. “You’ve outdone yourself, Peter.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The smile that elicits is brief, but gratifying. Elias moves to gather Peter’s clothes from where they’ve fallen haphazardly across the floor, and they dress in silence, not touching. When his tie is satisfactorily tightened and the only hint that they may have done anything untoward is the mess of his hair and the flush still lingering in his cheeks, Elias extends his right hand and says: “You can be assured Jonathan won’t cause you any more trouble, Mr. Lukas.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Peter shakes it, firmly. “I’m glad to hear it.” His grip tightens around Elias’ manicured fingers, and he pulls him closer, so Elias can smell the sex still on him. Before he can think what to say, there’s a brush of dry lips on his temple, the bristle of Lukas’ beard lingering long after the swift kiss is finished. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Elias smirks as Peter moves towards the door. “Peter,” he says haughtily. The other man pauses, hand on the knob, but doesn’t turn. “Try not to miss me too much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And he watches Peter Lukas disappear into the cold London night.</span>
</p>
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